


Just Like Home

by Eponin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eponin/pseuds/Eponin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buying a house is always... interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Originally meant for the spn_50states challenge, oh, about 2 (maybe it was 3?) years ago. State: Georgia. Future-fic. Non-canon compliant after 2nd season.
> 
> The genesis for this plot idea falls completely on the shoulders of scarlett_o. *points* It’s all her fault. She also graciously beta’d this for me.

Dean sized up the five steps leading up to the front porch and contemplated telling Sam he was on his own. His left knee flared with pain, not much, but enough to make the steps look daunting.

Movement to his left had him reaching for the gun in his waistband that wasn’t there.

“What are you looking at?” He glared at the dog peering out from underneath the neglected rose bushes, but Sam kept throwing concerned glances over his shoulder, and he _knew_ Sam was debating whether or not he should come carry him if Dean didn’t start up the steps on his own.

Right. Like _that_ was going to happen.

Flexing fingers around the head of his cane, he moved up step by careful step. “Stow it, Sammy,” he growled, catching Sam opening his mouth to speak, and when Sam turned back to the realtor, he grit his teeth and hurried up the last two steps.

Inside, they split up to look around. Dean left Sam listening intently to the realtor, a distraction while Dean wandered through empty rooms, his EMF reader still secure in his back pocket.

The house showed its age. Drafty, it would be hot in summer and cold in winter, and the worn wooden floors creaked beneath their weight. It felt comfortable, welcoming, and the EMF reader stayed silent.

“Dean,” Sam called, and even from the opposite end of the house Dean could hear the amusement plain in his voice. “Come see this!”

The bathroom Sam pointed out to him was hideous, the walls layered over with paper done in swirls of olive green and mustard.

“Looks like every hotel room we’ve ever stayed in,” Sam snickered from behind him. “You should feel right at home.”

Dean shifted backwards and _accidentally_ brought the tip of his cane down on Sam’s big toe.

“Ow, Dude!” Sam dug an elbow into his rubs and hopped sideways, frowning.

Dean grinned. Oh yeah. Just like home.

++++++++++

“When’s Mikey getting here?” Dean asked when they returned to the house the next day, key in hand.

The dog panted up at him from under the rose bushes and Dean paused for a break on the way up the front steps to study it. It was a hound of some sort, Basset, maybe, though it was hard to tell with the dog lying down and even when Dean called it didn’t seem inclined to move. Shrugging, he continued up onto the porch.

“Tomorrow, I think, or the day after.” Sam had a pencil stuck behind his ear and a cheap, spiral-bound notebook in his hands. He’d spent the night making to-do lists and supply lists and grinning over at Dean every few minutes. “He’s picking up Asher tonight.”

Grinning fondly at his dorky brother, Dean turned the key in the lock and followed Sam inside.

++++++++++

At six Sue Campbell - [ _Hi! I live across the street. It’s the blue house. With the magnolia trees?_ ] - brought them dinner and a pitcher of sweet tea to welcome them to the neighborhood. Dean smiled and flirted, reassuring himself that he still had it, even with a limp and wrinkles crowding in around his eyes.

Sam snorted into his tea and sprawled across the front steps.

They really needed a hammock, Dean decided, looking at the wraparound front porch. He snuck it onto Sam’s supply list – right between paint primer and kitchen curtains.

++++++++++

He woke late the next morning. Pushing back the covers, he stood, balancing his weight on his good leg and the cane; testing his knee. It ached but didn’t buckle, so Dean called it a win and maneuvered out of his room, slowly stretching sleep-tightened muscles. Sam’s door was shut tight and when Dean peered inside, his brother was sprawled on his back on the air mattress, buried beneath a mound of blankets with the pillow over his head.

 _Damn_. Another vision headache.

He closed the door gently and went to start the coffee pot Sam had picked up when they’d stopped at Wal-Mart for groceries. Caffeine helped with the headaches. Sometimes.

The house felt odd, all empty rooms and bare windows, and Dean’s footsteps echoed when he wore his boots inside. Michael was on his way with a truckload of old and dented furniture, left for years under drop cloths in the house neither of them had set foot in after Jim’s death.

Neither of them wanted the house but it was easier to tell the realtor in Blue Earth that Minnesota winters would be too much for Dean’s knee than to go into why they didn’t want a prime piece of real estate.

The coffeepot burbled merrily in the kitchen. Dean blinked, then shrugged and poured himself a mug. Sam must have set the timer up last night.

He was working on his second mug when Sam stumbled into the room. He slumped down at the little card table they’d also picked up at Wal-Mart, the chair creaking ominously under his frame, and rested his head in his arms. They were both too old to be sitting on the floor.

“Here.” He waved the extra mug of coffee at Sam.

Sam peered blearily up at him and wrapped his hands around the mug. He took a cautious sip, then, giving Dean a curious look, downed the entire cup.

“Are you sure you made this, Dean?” Sam asked once the mug was empty. “It’s _good_.”

“Of course I didn’t make it, _you_ idiot. You did.” Dean shook his head at his brother. “That vision must have scrambled your brains more than usual.”

Sam frowned at him. “Dean, I didn’t even take the pot out of the box.”

Sure enough, when they went searching the box was neatly broken down and waiting in by the back door for recycling. They glanced at each other. Even Sam wasn’t _that_ neat.

“I thought you cleared the house, Dean.”

“I did,” Dean protested. “The EMF didn’t even peep.”

“Maybe it’s broken?” Sam suggested. “Or just old?”

“Dude. Don’t even diss the EMF. It works fine.”

++++++++++

Dean leaned back against the porch railing and stretched his legs out in front of him, grumpily nursed his illicit mug of coffee while Sam searched every room in the house with Dean’s EMF reader. Again.

The sun had cleared the trees by the time the screen door creaked. Sam stepped out onto the porch, shielding his eyes from the glare.

“Anything?”

“Nothing. I’ll hit the library later.”

Dean nodded and sipped his coffee, making a face when he realized it had cooled. “You feeling up to it?”

“I called Ellen. She’ll get someone to follow up on the dream.” Sam said, shrugging. “You going to come with me?”

Dean rolled his eyes and shot a look over his shoulder at Sam.

Sam grinned. “Didn’t think so. You can wait for Mike and Asher. Try not to burn the house down before I get back.” He slipped back inside, letting the screen door slam behind him.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean shouted back at him, “Are you ever going to let me live that down? It was _one_ time!”

A rustling in the bushes sent him twisting back around. He peered over the metal railing to see the dog from the day before settle in the shade, pushed far enough back under the bush that it would have plenty of time to escape before anyone made it past the thorns.

Dean pushed up off the step, testing his knee before putting weight on it, and maneuvered slowly down the stairs.

He leaned over, tapping his fingers against his thigh, trying to draw the dog out. “Come on, pooch,” he called, leaning down as best he could so as not to frighten it. “I’ll get you a steak.” It stared back, shifting its weight, but otherwise showed no interest in moving.

Sam rushed out the door and Dean straightened, trying not to look like he’d been attempting to sweet-talk a dog.

Sam grinned at him from behind his sunglasses and Dean flung out a hand to keep him from speaking. “Don’t say it,” he growled.

“Say what?” Sam tilted his sunglasses up and smirked at Dean. “I’d never dream of saying anything about you offering a pooch a steak.”

Dean flipped him off. “You hurt my car and you’re dead, Sammy!” he said, then pointedly ignored Sam laughing his fool head off all the way to the car.

He looked under the bush again and shook his head. The dog wasn’t coming out on it’s own. He was going to need something to bribe it with, and the kitchen had nothing but coffee.

++++++++++

Dean limped home half a day later with a box of Milk Bones and two t-bone steaks, his eyes daring Sam, pacing back and forth on the front porch, to say anything. Sam threw up his hands and vanished inside, letting the screen door smack into the frame behind him.

Dean lowered himself to the ground in front of the bushes, pulling both steaks and the bones out from the plastic sack. The dog peered out at him and growled low in his throat. “Chill, dude,” Dean said, cracking open the box. He tossed one of the treats under the bushes and settled in for a long wait.

Sam had always wanted a dog.

++++++++++

He left the dog with a trail of milk bones leading up the front steps and capped it with a bowl of water set just far enough away from the front door that Dean could watch without the dog seeing him.

“So,” said Sam when Dean came inside. “I’ve got no idea who our ghost really is.”

Dean limped over to retrieve more coffee from the fresh pot neither Sam nor Dean had made. Settling gingerly at the table, he replied, “No sign of it hurting anyone?”

“Nope.”

Dean stared at the kitchen wall for a long moment, then grinned. “I say we keep it.”

Sam stared over at him, clearly surprised.

“He makes better coffee than you do, Einstein.”

“Like yours is so much better.”

“Lame comeback, Sammy.”

Sam gave him the evil eye, but Dean was pretty much immune by now. He flashed Sam a quicksilver grin and levered himself up from the chair. “So. What’s for dinner?”


End file.
